


Sharing a Ride

by Jaune_Chat



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Leather Jackets, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Motorcycle Sex, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21660787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaune_Chat/pseuds/Jaune_Chat
Summary: Brock decides to borrow Jack's leather jacket and motorcycle for some fantasy fulfillment
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47
Collections: Marvel Trumps Hate 2019





	Sharing a Ride

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalika999 (kalika_999)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



> Written for Kalika999 and QuillOfChoice for Marvel Trumps Hate

Jack was wearing leather again, and Brock was nearly at the end of his rope. Black motorcycle jacket across his shoulders, the leather running down his arms making Jack look that much bigger. The boots too, the damn fitted black leather boots with their straps, so different from the laced-up combat boots they wore most of the time, somehow making Jack even taller and look too damn good in the denim he wore underneath. Jack’s entire wardrobe could charitably be called utilitarian – neat, yes, and fitted nicely, but you could look in a thousand guys’ closets and find the same t-shirts, slacks, button-downs, and jeans. Brock liked to mix it up, keep it current, or retro, or whatever looked good. Being kept to BDUs or body armor in his working hours, so sue him if he liked some color and style when off the clock. Jack, however, seemed stuck in undercover blandsville… Except for the leather. Brock felt himself barely holding it to a simmer when Jack broke out the jacket and boots to go on a motorcycle ride. 

He swore Jack did it on purpose, because it always seemed to be on those days when Brock needed to do something else that he wore it. The few times Brock had managed to catch him at home in the outfit while they both had time on their hands to fool around, Jack had managed to get himself naked too fast for Brock to really show his appreciation. On the other hand – naked was good. Jack looked just as good out of clothes as in them. But on the other hand Brock _wanted_ the memory of leather-clad arms forcing him to take it how he liked it, of cool leather boots pressing his knees apart as he knelt, strained for friction, and worked his mouth over Jack’s hard flesh.

Fat chance of Jack figuring it out though, and Brock didn’t like to push. Or vocalize. Or use words when he was a lot better with his body.

Brock didn’t like riding motorcycles; he got shot at on a regular basis, so why add the risk of a broken skull and full-body road rash to the mix?

 _“You just like your hair too much,”_ Jack had countered the last time they’d talked about it. Which was accurate. Getting his hair looking that good took time and hell if Brock was going to destroy his coif with a helmet or highway wind.

Brock waited in the back office as he heard Jack take off the leather upstairs, put it in his closet, and grabbed his keys for the car. It was his turn to get dinner tonight, and he didn’t like subjecting his precious motorcycle to a drive through, or risk anything spilling. Brock wasn’t even supposed to be home yet, and that was all to the good. It gave him a quick chance to fulfill a major fantasy. Or more.

When he heard the car rumbling off in the distance, he emerged from the office and went into the bedroom to grab the leather, still slightly warm from Jack’s body. He kicked off his own shoes so he could slip inside the boots, taking off his shirt so he could feel the residual warm on the inside against his bare skin, smelling the combination of leather and Jack’s aftershave.

“Fuck.” It came out soft and heated and Brock didn’t want to wait another minute. He hustled downstairs, a little clumsy in Jack’s boots, but liking the feel of them smooth against his calves. The attached garage was meticulously clean, and the main door faced the blank side of their neighbor’s house instead of the street. Said neighbor was a three-quarters deaf Afghan vet who didn’t care what they did, so Brock opened up the door to let the sunlight illuminate Jack’s motorcycle. Just because Brock didn’t want to drive one didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate a good machine. He straddled it and movement caught his eye from the back wall. They’d hung mirrors there as a cheap security measure, but right now all Brock could see was Jack’s leather on Jack’s bike. He’d been half-hard since he’d gotten the jacket on, but seeing himself brought him nearly painfully erect against the confines of his jeans.

He unfocused his eyes from the reflection of his face and used peripheral vision to track himself. That was like Jack was there, his leather-covered arm reaching down to thumb open the button on his jeans and tug down his zipper to release the pressure. His hand pulling Brock out, warm leather brushing the sensitive head in a way that made Brock grit his teeth to keep control. Slow strokes, how Jack liked to do it, pausing to take his balls in his hand, sliding back to press against his pucker to tease. Brock shoved his jeans to his knees to get more room to work, heedless of any possible mess, and felt something small and hard in an inside jacket pocket press against his bare chest. He fished it out with his other hand: a goddamn tube of Astroglide.

Brock’s brain short-circuited as he squeezed too much on his hand the shoved his fingers inside himself. Nothing mattered now but ‘Jack’s’ hand inside him, getting him ready to take what he was given, occasionally pulling away to stroke his dick and balls, just to make him wait a little more.

“Jack, fuck, please, fuck me fuck me, _please_ …” Brock chanted softly, lost in the fantasy he was creating.

Something dropped behind him. Brock refocused and raised his eyes to the mirror to see Jack standing a few feet behind him, keys in hand, bags of food falling to the ground, watching Brock in his clothes, fucking himself on Jack’s motorcycle. Jack’s lips parted and his tongue darted out to wet them as he took two strides to close the distance.

Jack twisted one hand in the jacket’s collar, pulling Brock’s head back, and kissed his slack mouth so hard Brock felt bruised. He could only moan into the kiss, dick hard but forgotten in his hand.

“God-,” another sucking kiss, tongue captured and unable to respond back, “damn.” Jack tugged at Brock’s jeans roughly, and Brock toed off the boots to get them all the way off. He would have gone back into the house to keep going, but Jack stopped him and set the boots upright again. Brock squeezed one hand on the seat hard as he slipped his feet back in the leather boots, feeling them smooth against his feet. He felt a little ridiculous, just wearing a jacket, boots, and a bare ass, but Jack growled appreciatively as Brock stood up again.

“You look so damn good,” Jack said in his ear. He squeezed one muscular cheek of Brock’s ass, and paused as his fingertips brushed against the slick around Brock’s hole. “’Bout time you found that. Thought you’d never get up the nerve.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Brock snapped, or would have if Jack hadn’t shoved a long finger inside him, making him break up his insult with a passionate moan. Jack used his grip on Brock’s collar to tug him to the side, turn him, and put a firm hand on his back to bend him sideways over the motorcycle seat, legs mostly straight and ass up.

“Hang on, we’re going for a ride,” Jack said in his ear, and stood, removing his tormenting finger. Brock swore under his breath and grabbed for any part of the bike he could as he heard Jack’s belt come undone. Without stopping, Jack pushed in slow, the thick, blunt pressure feeling fucking fantastic. His hand gripped the jacket collar again, giving Jack leverage, and he kicked Brock’s booted feet apart for a better angle. Making little incoherent noises, tiny whines and groans he couldn’t quite suppress, Brock let it happen, hips twitching as his hard dick rubbed against the motorcycle seat.

Jack pulled back, and then thrust in again, his grip on the jacket collar pulling it tight against Brock’s throat and cutting off just a little air. His lust surged another notch, and he got out, “Jack, fuck!” in a thin voice. The grip tightened just a little more, and Jack started to fuck him hard, the pace too fast for Brock to match, too hard for him to get purchase with the boots to help. He had to lie there, bent over and taking it, hard and leaking pre-come and _loving_ it, half-strangled and helpless, Jack’s scent of leather in his nose, Jack’s dick owning him, Brock knowing he’d come when Jack wanted him to and not a second more. It was fucking beautiful, and Brock gave himself up to it. Heat and stretch, the force of the thrusts rocking him against the solidity of the bike, Jack sparking lightning bolts of pleasure through him with his thrusts.

“You like it?” Jack’s voice, like the rumble of an engine. Brock nodded against the tight collar. “You love it, don’t you?” Another nod and a gasp as Jack thrust in enough to half lift him off the seat. “Anytime, anywhere, anyway I want you.” That wasn’t a question, but Brock nodded anyways, dick throbbing so hard as Jack kept up a brutal pace. “Show me,” he demanded, pulling hard enough to arc Brock’s back like a bow, grinding his hips down into the seat. Brock orgasmed at the pressure on throat and cock both, spilling pulse after pulse onto the leather seat, the scent of come and leather and Jack’s aftershave mingling.

He relaxed into Jack’s hold as he pulled out of Brock, not protesting as Jack lifted him back and slowly lowered him to his knees next to the bike. He saw the stripes of white against the black leather seat and didn’t need any instructions to lean forward and lick them all off again. Jack made a strangled sound of _want_ behind him, and turned him to pull him into an embrace, spilling filth and praise into his ear.

“You did so fucking good, Jesus where the hell did that come from, I fucking love you you leather-disrespecting asshole,” Jack said, holding Brock up as he relaxed.

Brock just smiled as filthily as he could, and kissed Jack softly, turning to straddle him like he had the bike, ready for another ride.


End file.
